The Purity of Death
by superwholockstarkid
Summary: Destiel. The story of an Angel and a Demon expressing their love with paintings and (murder). TW: murder, suicide


This is the story of an Angel and a Demon. The Angel started it, killing a salesman then appearing in the papers wearing a grinning mask and a halo. He was in the papers and the police still couldn't find him. The Demon was in love with him, and wanted to show him somehow.

The Demon spent the rainy Tuesday morning selecting a woman for his painting. He found the perfect woman, sandy brown hair, giant green eyes that seemed to swallow her face. The Demon watched her as she walked from her office into the sheet of rain outside. He waited in a stolen car and watched her put her briefcase over her head to protect her pinned up hair. She was yelling into her Bluetooth, saying something about papers needing to be on her desk tomorrow morning before she pressed the button on the device, ending the call. Her expression was grim as she ran to the corner of the street. Her heels clacked loudly against the pavement, as she ran to catch a taxi. The Demon waited until the woman threw her arms down in frustration to drive over to her.

"Excuse me miss, would you fancy a ride?" He asks, charm flowing from his mouth with every word. The rain splattering against the roof of the car was deafening as the woman pondered for one second, then two.

"Fine." She said at last, an exasperated sigh dancing across her lips. "I didn't know it was going to rain." The Demon grins as he pulls off of the curb.

"I'm Timothy by the way." A lie.

"Dana, it's nice to meet you. I live just down Delaney Road." She points toward the street two blocks ahead. After that the car was quiet. No music played, the only sounds were the woman's breathing, the systematic drops of rain, and the purring of the engine. As the Demon pulls into Dana's driveway she smiles and turns to him saying thank you. His you're welcome is in his nod and smile. Dana pulls the pins out of her hair, relieving them from the duty of keeping her hair in place. She tilts her head and her hair falls down into her lap, a sandy cascade.

"Do you want to come in for a drink?"

"I should be getting back to my wife." Dana's green eyes flicker down to his hand. There's no ring. "It's being cleaned." She knows he is lying. Her grin is massive as she exits the car. She leans in through the open window; her tone is the epitome of sultry.

"Come on, just one drink." The Demon pauses dramatically, running a hand through his hair before putting his hood on.

"Alright, I guess one drink won't kill me." Dana smiles as he exits the car, he reaches into the backseat for his duffel bag before slamming the door closed. His duffel hangs low by his feet, hidden from Dana's view. His gloved hand reaches into his trench coat pocket, fingering the bottle there. They make it through the doorway when the Demon presses the white, chloroformed cloth to Dana's face. She puts up a struggle; though her cries of protest are swallowed by the cloth. Her body goes limp, falling into his arms. The Demon drags her into the living room pushing her onto the couch.

"Nice place you've got here. I hope you don't mind if I use it as a canvas." The Demon runs his fingers along the cream colored couch. "This will be perfect. The Angel is going to love it. I picked you especially for her. To confess my love to her." The Demon's grin is devilish as he drops his duffle on the floor. "You should be honored." He whispers as he unzips his duffle bag and pulls out his precious blade. A paragon of a Khopesh, a crescent moon shaped blade used by the Egyptians. His was a treasure made of Japanese steel, folded and maneuvered several times to extinguish impurities, she was perfect and the Demon loved her. He had his Khopesh and ski mask and the Angel had his halo and grinning mask.

When the Angel paints he usually lets the person bleed out after a cut to their neck. The Demon does the same, now he's a copycat. His blade curls beautifully around Dana's neck. Crimson blood sprays all over her couch, face and shirt. The Demon can't help but marvel at the beauty of blood. The smell, metallic, coppery, it fills his nose as Dana's blood vessels narrow and tries to stop the blood flow but the cut was much too deep. Dana sputtered, choking on her own blood. The sound is guttural and it fills the Demon with satisfaction. He slices Dana's wrists, swinging his khopesh upward to splatter the ruby colored spray onto the looming white walls of the house. When he's satisfied with his painting, the Demon places a single red rose in Dana's open hand.

"It's for my Angel." He whispers before grabbing his duffle and escaping the scene.

The next morning he got a call from his boss telling him to check the news. He turned on the television to see his artwork plastered everywhere, Dana was beautiful. The crimson colored blood looked absolutely radiant in contrast to her pale skin. Her sandy hair spread out over the couch, caked in blood. Her eyes were closed but the green orbs were etched into the Demon's brain. He'd never forget his first painting for his Angel. The rose, wilted in only a days' time, was still there in Dana's hand.

They were calling him the Killer Rose and he hated it, he wasn't a killer. He was a lover; the painting was a gift to the Angel not an act of power over Dana's life. The Demon didn't kill Dana, he made her into something beautiful, and he had helped her become the centerpiece of an act of love. He specifically chose her because she was special; she was filled with so much hate, loneliness, and stress. The Demon just wanted to rid her of the negative.

A few hours later his boss called him again telling him about a murder. The Angel. His Angel had responded to his painting. The Demon paced around in his living room, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth. He was afraid, like he'd never been before. He didn't know what he'd do if the Angel was angry with him, if he didn't accept his love. When he couldn't wait any longer, he turned the television on again, his fate balancing on a wobbly log. The Angel's work was beautiful. More beautiful than anything he could have possibly imagined. The Angel had painted him. It was an abstract painting of a man's face, the man smiled and instead of teeth, his grin showed roses. Every sweep, every stroke of his brush expressed his appreciation and the Demon stepped closer to the television, wishing he could touch this gift that the Angel had given him, could see it in the flesh. Though he didn't think it was possible, he fell even more in love with The Angel.

The Demon planned his next piece of artwork; the Angel had created his masterpiece quickly. The Demon had no time to carefully select his model. He felt rushed but he needed to respond to the Angel's portrait, he needed supplies. He jumped into his car and started for the store. The sky was dark, the looming clouds above promising rain.

His trip to the store ended with him acquiring some new paints, spray paints, paint brushes and a basket of roses. He made a stop at the grocery store, where he helped a woman with her bags and she in turn invited him to dinner at her house. He felt apprehensive about how easy it seemed but he couldn't think about that with his Angel waiting patiently for his response.

The woman, her name is Irene, sits at the table while the Demon makes them spaghetti, and they talk over things the Demon finds boring, politics, taxes, public school funding. When she excuses herself to use the restroom the Demon puts on his gloves and removes a bottle from his pocket. He pushes the top off of the bottle and places several of the leaves inside Irene's bowl. The bottle clanks around in his pocket when he puts it back.

"Wow, this looks wonderful." The Demon smiles tightly.

"Thank you, but looks can be deceiving." Irene doesn't say anything, and the Demon watches her as she twirls her fork around the spaghetti. His eyes are on her as she takes the first bite.

"Nope, it looks and tastes good. No hoodwinks here." Irene says, nodding. She wipes her mouth with a cloth, turning one spot red. She takes a few more bites before the asphyxiation takes over her. Death clings to her as she clings to life. Her fingers clutch at her throat as the air leaves her body. The Demon can see the hurt in her eyes as she stares at him, her fingers move to claw at her chest as her lungs start to give out.

"Poison. Named Aconite. They also call it 'wolfs bane'" The Demon says as he removes himself from the table. Irene hits the floor tilting her head over to vomit, her short black hair jumping across her shoulders with the movement. "I'm going to make you a model for a portrait to my Angel. I'm sorry Irene, but you should be honored."

"I'm not…" She wheezes. "Honored, didn't you see the news?" She coughs, the sound is guttural. "They're looking for you." The Demon watches as Irene's eyes roll in the back of her head. He finishes quickly, painting all of the poisonous plants he could remember around her body, with the aconite plant above her head.

This time, the Angel sent him a man. He was naked, save for shorts and tied to a tree in a public park, knives poking out of him all over his body. Though there was no paint, it was still art. He could tell that the man had done something to his Angel and he was condemning him, humiliating him even in death. Letting the birds pick at him the way he picked at the Angel. The Demon had tried to go and see the tree himself but they had already removed the body.

The Demon drove back toward his house, making a pit stop at his job where he gave his co-worker Keaton, a rose and asked him to come have dinner with him. Keaton protested at first, telling the Demon that he had some work to do still. The Demon, or to Keaton, Paul, reminded him that life's short and that he'd really like his company, he knew Keaton had had a crush on him since he'd started working there, he had lusted after him and he hadn't returned the affection. After a moment he agreed, smiling and pressing his nose into the rose. He ran a hand through his dark, unruly hair and looked up at the Demon with blue eyes that reminded him of the rushing ocean. In the car, the pair decided that they were to go to Keaton's house and make dinner. Keaton absolutely hated going out to dinner in public, he hated the humiliation of eating in front of so many people. The Demon listened while he spoke animatedly about his love for stray cats. The Demon thought that if he wasn't in love with the Angel and if he wasn't going to make Keaton into an art piece that he would have liked to date him. His grin is fond as he thinks about the Angel, his Angel accepted him, reciprocated his feelings.

Keaton makes chicken alfredo fettuccini, and the Demon tried not to think about how beautiful he was, bustling around, talking with his hands, sauce flying around with every wild gesture. Over dinner they talk about the news and art from the 19th century. When they were finished and the Demon was ready to leave he slings his duffle over his arm and unzips it.

"I have something for you." He pulls out the basket of roses and Keaton gasps, blushing.

"They're beautiful; I'll go put them in a vase."

"There's no need for a vase." Keaton turns around quizzically. The Demon brings his khopesh back like a baseball bat then swings it counter-clockwise, creating a gargantuan gash across Keaton's abdomen, almost separating his torso from his legs. Both the basket and his still intact body fall to the ground. Keaton sobs, holding his inner organs in bloodied and shaking hands. He doesn't speak as the Demon works but he's still alive, whimpering and crying because of the pain. The Demon apologizes telling him he's going to be so beautiful. Keaton chokes out a laugh.

"Make me something gorgeous, my Demon." And it seemed as if time had stopped instantaneously. The Demon didn't blink, his resolve had cracked into infinite pieces.

"Angel?"

"My mother named me Castiel, angel of Thursday."

"Castiel." The Demon didn't remember ever crying in his life. He didn't cry when his parents died, he didn't cry when his pets died as a kid, he didn't even cry while his father was hitting him every night, but in that moment tears weren't enough. He had taken the life of his love and he wasn't even dead yet. He was simply suspended in this place where his death was inevitable.

"Mine named me Dean."

"Dean." Castiel tries to smile and he looks up at Dean with heavy lidded eyes.

"Castiel, I'm so sorry." Dean didn't know what else to say.

"Finish it." Castiel gasps, red blood pouring from the corner of his mouth as he coughs.

Dean sobs as he pulls Castiel's intestines out, severing all connections. He pulls everything out before making another cut where Castiel's heart is. After he severs all of the arteries he pulls his heart out. He fills the gaps with flowers. Setting each one individually and saving the reds, blues, and purples for Castiel's heart, then one red rose in his right hand. When he's finished with the flowers he grabs the spray paint from his duffle. The first thing he paints is a halo over Castiel's head. Next, spreading out on the floor of the living room, wings, they are white, pure, like an Angel's.

As he works, Dean thinks about how terrible love is, how it clogs up your senses and no matter how much you unclog and say I don't love anyone, there is that person who will keep on clogging you up and you let them. It's unfair and unkind because you'd do anything for someone you love. You'd kill as he and Castiel did. Love makes you give up a part of yourself for another person. Another human being! Someone who is just like you has this sort of super power over you and it is not fair. There's a certain vulnerability when it comes to love, it eats away at you until you become small and broken down in your most natural form, baring everything to your partner. Dean hated that he loved Castiel. The price of love was too high.

"You'll always be my Angel." Dean says, wiping his eyes before laying a salty kiss on Castiel's forehead. He paints black wings next to Castiel and red horns above the wings. He lies down, holding Castiel's hand in his right hand and holding his khopesh in the other. He closes his eyes and brings the khopesh to his neck, slicing his jugular vein. In his last moments Dean feels free of destruction, all of his life destruction was all he felt. But now, as he lay bleeding out next to his Angel, he felt…pure.


End file.
